The cruelty of covered grass
in morning’s sharp angles—
child chatter clattering down
stairwells because school
is out, and beds, unmade.
Yesterday’s unwashed utensils
climb like flowerless stalks
out of their thick-walled mug,
scentless, but sparkling—set
as they are in one small slice
of sunlight clearing windowsill
to cut the sink into halves.
Try not to recall Solomon,
the wisdom of a sword,
as faucet water runs hot
over hands busy at the bowl.
Palms rise in abrogation,
as if before a crowd.
Try not to recall Pilate,
two hands deep for soiled
dinner plates: You see to it.
Suds do not make innocence.
Snow braces for another
cold day, unaware of principles.
The sky opens its cupboards,
shakes out a simple cloth of blue.
Third Coast, Issue 52, Fall/Winter 2022